By ROSIE WATERLAND
I don’t get rid of my pubic hair. There, I said it.
I don’t wax it or shave it or lazer it or pluck it. I let it run wild, baby.
There’s no grand ideological feminist reason behind my choice – it’s literally because I’m a wuss. I got a brazillion once, and it was one of the most traumatic and painful experiences of my life (and that’s coming from the only person on earth who sat through the entire Catwoman movie).
When I was younger and felt pressure to go bald, I used to tell boyfriends early in the relationship that “I just haven’t had time to get to the beautician…” Then I would just never go, and by the time they realised the beautician story was an elaborate ruse I already had them in my charming and witty grasp. Suckers.
As I got older and become more confident in myself, I stopped with the lies altogether. I just figured if a guy wants the goods he has to take them whatever way they’re packaged. If he has a problem with that, then obviously I’m not the right girl for him.
I’ve not had any problems with that system so far. In fact, I think it’s an excellent way of weeding out the dodgy guys before things go too far. The douche-canoes, if you will. Anyone who demands your vagina look a certain way has no business being in your vagina. Simple.